March 14th.
The air inside Old Trafford was thick with anticipation. It was a cold, crisp Manchester evening, but the heat emanating from the stands could have melted steel.
Over sixty thousand Manchester United fans packed three sides of the stadium, a sea of red jerseys, scarves, and banners.
The noise was deafening, a constant, rolling thunder that shook the foundations of the century-old ground.
Tonight was the second leg of the Champions League Round of 16 against Sevilla.
For the faithful, the dream wasn't lifting the trophy in Kiev—that felt like a distant fantasy, a relic of the Ferguson era when United stood toe-to-toe with giants like Real Madrid, Barcelona, and Bayern Munich.
No, tonight was about something simpler: progress.
Taking one step forward out of the mediocrity that had plagued them after sir Alex retirement.
Reaching the quarter-finals would be a statement that the sleeping giant was finally wiping the sleep from its eyes.
"Let's show those Spaniards what hell looks like!" a fan screamed from the Stretford End, his face flushed with passion.
He raised his arms, conducting the crowd like a maestro.
The melody swelled, drowning out the official Champions League anthem.
"Glory, Glory, Man United!" "And the reds go marching on!"
The stands trembled. Dust motes danced in the floodlights.
Amidst the chaos, a group of Chinese fans sat huddled together in the East Stand.
They were inconspicuous in the sea of people, but their eyes shone with a unique intensity.
Zhang Wei watched as the players emerged from the tunnel. He felt a shiver run down his spine.
He tried to imagine what it felt like to be down there—to have tens of thousands of people screaming your name, scrutinizing your every breath.
"Good evening, viewers," Martin Tyler's voice boomed over the global broadcast. "Welcome to the Theatre of Dreams for this Champions League Round of 16 second leg. Manchester United versus Sevilla."
"In the first leg, United secured a crucial 2-1 victory in Spain," Gary Neville added. "Two away goals give them a massive advantage. A 0-0 or 0-1 loss would still see them through. But knowing Mourinho, and seeing this lineup, I don't think he's here to park the bus tonight."
"Let's look at the teams," Tyler continued. "United line up in a 4-2-3-1. But there's a key absence in defense. David Luiz is cup-tied, having played for Chelsea in the group stages. So, Mourinho pairs Eric Bailly with Chris Smalling."
"It's a risky partnership," Neville noted. "Bailly is aggressive, sometimes rash. Smalling is experienced but prone to lapses in concentration. Sevilla will look to exploit that. They also match up in a 4-2-3-1. Vincenzo Montella is fighting for his job tonight."
Peep!
Referee blew the whistle.
The match was underway.
Romelu Lukaku tapped the ball to Nemanja Matic, but the focus wasn't on the midfield engine room.
It was on the left flank.
Manchester United didn't bother with patient build-up. They went straight for the jugular.
The ball was fired out wide to the Number 7.
Ling received it on the touchline.
Pablo Sarabia, Sevilla's right midfielder, closed in aggressively, trying to suffocate the space early.
The tussle lasted less than a second.
Ling didn't try to go around him. He went through him. His muscles tensed, a perfect synthesis of speed and raw power. He dropped his shoulder and accelerated.
Thump.
The collision was audible even in the lower rows. Sarabia bounced off Ling like he had run into a concrete pillar.
The Spaniard flailed, his arms windmilling as he tried to stay upright, looking utterly hapless.
The crowd roared.
They hadn't expected this intensity from the first minute.
"Oh my word!" Tyler shouted. "He's just bulldozed Sarabia! Mourinho isn't playing for a draw; he wants to destroy them!"
"This is the most efficient way to play against a Spanish side," Neville analyzed quickly. "Sevilla wants to pass you to death. If you let them have the ball, they will rhythm you to sleep. United are bypassing the midfield entirely. Deep passes to the wings, let Ling and Rashford run."
Ling was away.
He drove into the final third. The pitch seemed to open up before him.
Off the ball, the United attack was moving like clockwork.
Marcus Rashford pulled wide to the right, dragging Sergio Escudero out of position. Romelu Lukaku barreled down the center, occupying both center-backs, Gabriel Mercado and Clement Lenglet.
And in the hole, Jesse Lingard was buzzing around the defensive midfielders, Ever Banega and Steven Nzonzi, like a persistent fly.
He wasn't marking them; he was annoying them, disrupting their shape.
Gabriel Mercado stepped out to confront Ling. He was a tough, experienced Argentine defender. He crouched low, ready to engage.
Ling charged straight at him.
Stop. Start. Stop. Start.
"Look at the deceleration!" Neville gasped. "He stops on a dime and explodes again! It's simple, but it's brutal!"
Ling's dribbling wasn't about flashy step-overs this time. It was a test of physical limits.
He would sprint, stop abruptly, forcing Mercado to halt his momentum, and then explode past him before the defender could reset his feet.
In just six months, Ling's body had transformed. The System's "Rapid Growth Period" combined with his maniacal work ethic had turned him into an athlete that bordered on alien.
Mercado's calves were burning. His lungs screamed for oxygen. He felt suffocated by the relentless pace.
Ling, too, was hurting.
He gritted his teeth, forcing his body to ignore the lactic acid. He pushed past Mercado, reaching the byline.
He looked up.
The angle was tight. The box was crowded.
He adjusted his posture, planting his right foot firmly. He swung his left leg, striking the bottom half of the ball with venom.
Thump.
The ball lifted off the grass.
It traced a high, majestic arc over the heads of everyone in the center—over Lukaku, over Lenglet, over the despairing leap of Nzonzi.
The cross was immense.
The camera operator struggled to track it as it flew toward the far post, the "back door" of the defense.
Ever Banega was the closest Sevilla player to the landing zone.
But Banega had been distracted. Lingard's movement had pulled his focus centrally. He had completely neglected his blind spot.
Suddenly, a shout from his goalkeeper, Sergio Rico.
"BACK POST!"
Banega turned, panic flaring in his eyes.
A shadow was arriving. A giant in a red shirt.
"Pogba?!" Tyler screamed. "Where did he come from?!"
It was Paul Pogba.
The Frenchman had started the move deep in his own half. While everyone watched Ling destroy the wing, Pogba had made a lung-busting run of sixty yards, ghosting into the box late and unmarked.
This was the killer move.
The distraction on the left was a setup for the execution on the right.
Banega tried to scramble back, but it was too late.
Pogba didn't try to control it.
He watched the ball drop from the sky, adjusting his stride perfectly. He leaned back and met the ball on the full volley with the side of his foot.
BANG.
The connection was sweet.
The ball spun violently, dipping sharply as it flew toward the goal.
Sergio Rico threw up a hand, but the shot was too powerful, too precise. It slipped through his fingers and rippled the net.
"GOALLLLL! PAUL POGBA!"
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